


eighteenth time is the charm

by Liu



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Science, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Temporary Character Death, a few times over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: In the warped timeline, Mick and Ray have to defuse a bomb. Several times over. Unexpected feelings boil over.





	eighteenth time is the charm

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for anon prompt on tumblr, "I didn't intend to kiss you" with atomwave. It got away from me a bit, but I like the idea, so I'm taking the page out of the CW writers' book and electing to ignore all the plot holes in favor of the angst :D

“Are you sure this is the only way, Haircut?”

“Yes,” Ray sighs, for what feels like the tenth time. Mick grumbles something unintelligible, but still follows Ray down what used to be Santa Monica Boulevard, through the heaps of rubble and pterodactyl droppings. That’s what Ray has come to value about Mick, actually: the way he will complain, often with his fists, but when shit hits the fan – or when there’s a bomb that needs to be disabled – he’s always right there.

And maybe Mick having his back in all the worst situations is messing with Ray’s head, but this is neither the time nor the place to think about it. In fact, Ray has yet to find the right time and place: not that he’s trying too hard. It’s just so much easier to ignore the warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever Mick unexpectedly does something selfless while still frowning about it, grumbling like he’s not one of the kindest, bravest people Ray has ever-

“Guys, it’s not the one in Pacific Park, you’ve already tried that one,” Sara says through the comm, tearing Ray out of thoughts. He’s secretly grateful for the distraction; he’s getting steadily worse at ignoring those intrusive thoughts.

Ray brings up the map of Los Angeles onto the suit’s visor: it’s only moderately accurate, considering that it doesn’t account for several timelines overlapping with each other, but for their purpose, it will have to do.

“What about the UCLA?”

There are voices in the background, probably another of their teammates consulting the plans Ray prepared for this mission. A distant roar echoes somewhere nearby, no more than a few blocks away, just as Sara’s voice returns. “Yeah, that’s still in the running. You’re about two miles out.”

“Can we fly?” Ray asks, and ignores the way Mick growls in the back of his throat. The rumbling sound sends shivers down Ray’s spine, and there’s definitely no time for that. In moments like these, Ray really misses the times when he wasn’t so incredibly aware of everything Mick says or does. Ignorance really is bliss.

“You’re good to go up until Westwood, there seems to be a nest of… _something_ unfriendly on the Oppenheimer Tower.”

“Got it,” Ray nods and turns to Mick – who is looking at him like a very angry cat. Ray’s got experience with angry cats. For some reason, the animals react to him in the same way his body does to their fur: with violent refusal. But he’s also got experience with _Mick_ , and he knows that he won’t _actually_ be punched in the face when he steps towards the other man and smiles.

“Hold on. And be careful around the jets, okay?”

“I know,” Mick scowls but wraps his arms around Ray’s shoulders, looking pissed. Ray rests his palm against the small of Mick’s back to stabilize the suit’s flight with the extra weight (at least that’s what Ray tells himself, rather feebly).

It turns out that rerouting around the National Cemetery is not as much of a good idea as Ray believed, but they don’t realize that until they see the twenty-feet tripods shooting lasers at each other among the graves.

“Very War of the Worlds,” Mick grunts, close to Ray’s ear. Ray shivers, and wishes they had the time to address Mick’s knowledge of that particular work.

Then they get shot down, or rather, some kind of a charge goes off when one of the tripods explodes, and there’s an emergency landing that Ray thinks could’ve gone smoother. Twenty minutes later they’ve managed to shake the machines running after them on spindly, creaky legs, and Ray’s breathing hard as he leans against the dusty wall of a half-collapsed palace that most _definitely_ doesn’t belong in Westwood Village.

“If _that_ ’s the future, then I’m suddenly a lot less excited about time travel,” he groans, pushing his visor up to swipe at the sweat dripping down his brow.

Mick, right next to him, leans out of their hiding spot and fires his gun, then grins at Ray with that manic light in his eyes that Ray has (unfortunately) come to appreciate.

“I don’t know, they burn pretty fucking well.”

And of course Mick would be okay with anything that can be torched. Ray lets out a weak laugh and grabs the man’s arm.

“Let’s go.”

UCLA is a whole another can of worms – _literally_ , seeing as there are a few hundred rotting bison corpses lining the streets all around the campus. Ray gags and covers his nose with his hand, but it doesn’t really help. Mick fires at the nearest corpse and scowls:

“If this is art, I don’t get it.”

Ray wants to laugh, but that would make him inhale more of the rot, so he just drags Mick into the School of Engineering, which has somehow acquired a very golden, very strange clock tower.

And a bomb. That’s the worst part, really.

It doesn’t take that long to locate the gadget. The timer is counting down, three minutes and fifteen seconds, fourteen, thirteen, and Ray bites the inside of his cheek, stomach squeezing with anxiety at how tight their schedule is. The tripods were really an unexpected detour… and while technically, they can travel back in time and try again, Gideon has warned them against doing it, their plan already including way too much time-travel for the AI’s peace of mind.

Two minutes and fifty-nine seconds, and Mick’s gloved hand closes around Ray’s wrist. He can barely feel the touch through his gauntlet, no more than a ghost of a feeling where Mick’s thumb presses into the soft spot against Ray’s wrist, but it’s enough to tear him out of his reverie. He glances at the other man, and something in Mick’s eyes flips Ray’s stomach, in the best (and worst, considering their situation) way possible.

“You can do it, Haircut.”

Adrenaline floods Ray’s system and he nods back, stepping towards the bomb and hoping for the best. There are two more like it in the city – well, one, considering what Sara said about them having tried the Pacific Park. Fifteen more across the country, and only disabling the right one will actually prevent the explosion from happening.

Ray has no idea how many they’ve tried before. How many Rays and Micks have been blown up together with the rest of the continent while their team blinked out of that particular timeline only to retrieve them from an earlier time, so that they could try again, with a different bomb. Ray tries not to think about his feelings on the matter of dying so many times, but… it’s not like he’ll remember it, right? And maybe, just maybe, this time they’ll hit the jackpot and this _will_ be the correct one.

He fusses with the wires while Mick, unsurprisingly, produces a chocolate bar from _somewhere_ and starts chewing loudly. It makes Ray chuckle, which in turn makes him relax a little and focus on his task better. Mick has that effect on him: which should be strange, because most people get really nervous around Mick, not the opposite. Ray’s used to it now, to the unique way they just _fit_ , like two pieces of a puzzle. Or like pieces of two different puzzles which were cut out by the same machine, the pictures looking different at first sight but the shapes still matching…? Ray gets lost in his metaphor halfway through, but then, the build of the bomb suddenly clicks in his brain and he cuts the right cord, giving Mick a triumphant grin.

The bomb stops the countdown at one minute, ten seconds, and Ray lets out a loud breath.

Mick tosses the candy wrapper to the floor and pushes himself off the table where he’s been sitting, within Ray’s reach.

“Guys?” Sara’s voice sounds worried. “It didn’t work. We’ve got eyes on the Pacific Park bomb and it’s still ticking.”

Ray’s insides turn to lead. He knows what this means – that the team has less than a minute to get out of this particular timeline, return a couple of hours back, and collect the Mick and Ray who have not yet fought off weird futuristic tripods or waded through a field of dead animals.

Ray sincerely hopes that the past Mick and Ray will have more luck next time.

He swallows, throat dry to the point of pain and hands shaking, and it filters through his suddenly foggy brain that there’s going to be a Raymond Palmer safe and sound in the future, but it’s not going to be _him_.

He’s got just a few seconds to live, a little more than half a minute, tops. They’re both going to die, and Ray remembers devising the plan with this exact moment in mind. He’s willing to do it, just as he was willing with the Oculus… but it’s hard to fool the survival instinct screaming at him to grab Mick and run, as if it would do any good with a bomb of this magnitude.

“You really shouldn’t have gone with me,” he says quietly, voice thick with the fear he tries not to feel.

Mick’s fingers, bare and scarred, twine with Ray’s own.

“Not like I coulda let you take all the credit, Haircut.”

And Mick’s grumbling again, but he’s right there with Ray, about to die who knows how many times, but he’s _there_ and Ray’s heart is suddenly filled to the brim and he can’t, _can’t_ die regretting that he never told Mick just how much he means to Ray.

“Fifteen seconds, guys, we’re out,” Sara’s voice drifts like a distant echo through the earpiece, but Ray doesn’t have time for words, hers or his own. He tosses his helmet off – it’s not going to protect him now, anyway – and steps right into Mick’s personal space, ignoring the look of dawning apprehension or worry or confusion, whatever it is, they’ve got no time for that.

Ten seconds now, or less, and Ray leans into Mick, into that solid warmth that he never would’ve expected the first time he laid eyes on the pyro. But Mick is so much more than that, so much more than just a goon or a thief or a criminal, more than Chronos and more than a friend, darn, so much _more_.

Seven seconds, and Mick’s sharp inhale cuts through the ominous silence in the room

Six, and his eyes drift closed, like he trusts Ray, like maybe, he _wants_ this to happen, and Ray’s heart nearly bursts at the thought that he could’ve done this sooner, could’ve felt this terrified and excited and _happy_ for days, maybe weeks.

Five, and Ray closes the distance; four, and their lips meet, Mick’s hands slipping into the sweaty strands of hair at the nape of Ray’s neck. It’s painfully perfect and Ray wants to cry, but he can hold it back for the few seconds they still have.

He doesn’t bother coming up for air before the blinding light and the heat of the explosion swallow them up.

……

“Mick, wait!” Ray calls, stumbling over the debris on the road as he does his best to run after the other man.

Who’s moving surprisingly fast, considering there’s still a broken arrow shaft stuck in his thigh. Ray might be reevaluating his opinion on the dream-come-true of meeting – and fighting – actual Cossacks.

“Wait!” he yells again, but Mick isn’t listening, doing his very best to get away from Ray as quickly as possible. Or at least it seems that way, and Ray’s heart is a heap of misery at this point. He didn’t want things to turn out this way, but in his defense…

“I didn’t _intend_ to kiss you, okay?! I’m sorry! It was a spur of the moment thing, you know, the moment I thought we had like, ten seconds to live? Mick, talk to-“

He rounds the corner behind which Mick disappeared and stops short, eyes widening as he spots the whole Waverider crew, _all_ of them, not ten feet away and grinning like a bunch of cats who got a pool full of cream all to themselves.

“Oh,” Ray sighs and rubs at the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks heat up. Mick is scowling, but it’s hard to tell whether he hates Ray or the rest of them more at the moment.

“You know,” Jax smirks, “it would be much easier to believe that you didn’t _intend_ to do it if you haven’t done it… what, eight times?”

“Ten,” Sara corrects, with an expression that reminds Ray of Leonard Snart.

“What,” Mick snarls, and it’s not even a question, just a demand for explanation. He shoots Ray a suspicious glare, and Ray’s insides wither like a flower in a microwave. He wants to ask whether it was really that awful – because for the couple of seconds they were kissing, Mick actually seemed… not wholly against the idea. Until Sara’s voice came to them through their comms, amusement tinting her words as she announced that she had just been messing with them and they have, in fact, disabled the bomb this time and wouldn’t really die.

It’s a cruel joke if Ray ever saw one, but he has to admit that he would _maybe_ laugh, out of sheer relief if nothing else, if only Mick didn’t hightail it out of that room like his butt was on fire.

No, wait, scratch that, the man might actually _enjoy_ that.

“What?” Ray echoes, albeit weaker. Sara steps forward and wraps her arm around his shoulders – even the easy, friendly gesture feels like teasing.

“Yeah. Ten times out of eighteen, you kissed him right before the bomb went off.”

Ray gapes, unable to make a single sound. A part of his brain not completely caught up in the horror of half-molesting his teammate registers the number eighteen and thinks ‘of _course_ it had to be the very last one that worked’, but a much bigger part of his mind is trapped in the dawning realization that he won’t get off the hook that easily.

If you do something ten times, even if technically, it’s always a different instance of _you_ , it’s much harder to play it off as a ‘spur of the moment’, huh.

Mick growls under his breath; Ray really admires Amaya’s bravery for stepping close to their resident pyro.

“You’ve got no grounds for that grimace you’re making,” she says, pointing a finger right in Mick’s face. “The other eight times it was _you_.”

The change that washes over Mick’s features is breathtaking: rage transforms into confusion and gives way to an expression that Ray would dub ‘deer in the headlights’. Mick looks a little trapped, and a part of Ray wants to step up and help… but he can’t bring himself to sweep this off the table when he’s learning that maybe Mick could- no, Mick definitely _does_ -

That’s when Mick’s knee goes out from under him and Ray lurches forward to catch him before he hits the pavement. Mick’s not looking at him at _all_ , but he does allow Ray to wrap a steadying arm around his waist, holding on to Ray’s shoulder in turn.

“Let’s get that arrow out,” Ray sighs; there’s nothing he can do if Mick doesn’t want to talk about it. Yes, feelings are definitely involved, for both of them… but Ray can’t force Mick to talk about it if he doesn’t want to. And Ray’s learned in the thirty-seven years of his life that feelings don’t always equal a happy ending… perhaps he was naïve to hope that with Mick, things could turn out well for once.

The rest of the team trail into the Waverider after them, but Ray hardly registers their presence. The way to the medbay is one huge awkward moment, the tense silence interspersed with Mick’s pained grunts. He still refuses to meet Ray’s eyes and it feels a bit like he’s withdrawing into himself, leaving Ray on the outside… but that’s okay for the time being, since Ray is doing his best to collect his thoughts anyway.

He sticks around while Gideon heals Mick’s thigh, and tries not to cast odd looks at Mick’s naked skin. Come to think of it, he can’t remember seeing Mick without pants before, and he flushes when his eyes wander up the surprisingly smooth thigh to the simple (red) boxer briefs. Ray averts his eyes as quickly as humanly possible: Mick didn’t react too well to the kiss, whether or not he might’ve instigated a few himself, so Ray’s pretty sure he wouldn’t like to be ogled, either.

Finally, Gideon declares Mick ‘good as new’ and Ray hears the shuffling noises of the other man sliding off the seat and reaching for his bloodied pants. The sight of him, standing in the cold medbay in a long-sleeved shirt, boxers and socks, scowling at the torn jeans in his hand and looking lost, breaks Ray’s heart a little and he pushes himself away from the wall:

“I’ll get you new ones, just wait here, okay?”

He’s halfway out the door when Mick’s quiet voice stops him.

“Wait.”

Ray turns, and Mick isn’t hypnotizing the floor anymore: he’s looking right back, and there’s a kind of vulnerability in his eyes that Ray’s afraid to analyze too hard, for fear of it slipping away.

And suddenly, he’s chuckling and walking closer, the feeling of being forced out behind Mick’s personal barriers gone.

“Who would’ve thought we’d have to die eighteen times to get to this point, huh?” he jokes, and a shadow flickers over Mick’s expression. Before Ray can apologize – because what an awful joke to make to someone who lost his best friend twice in just a couple of months – Mick is reaching out and tangling his fingers into the belt of Ray’s suit, pulling him closer.

“Just seventeen,” he huffs, his face suddenly awfully close. Ray swallows, his brain shutting down as Mick crosses the distance, lips almost brushing Ray’s. “And I’ve got a score to even out, Haircut.”

It’s not the most romantic declaration of intent that Ray could imagine, but when Mick bites at his bottom lip, he can’t find it in himself to complain.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come tell me all about the lack of logic in this on [tumblr.](https://pheuthe.tumblr.com/)


End file.
